The Year the Capitol Lost
by wwheisenberg
Summary: Caesar Flickerman interviews a simple tribute whose words change the course of the games. AU. One shot. "The Hunger Games" belongs to Suzanne Collins. "For Whom the Bell Tolls" belongs to John Donne.


Caesar Flickerman ran a flat palm over his dry blue hair. He could see the producer in front of him signaling the count down, silently mouthing "three, two, one."

_And away we go_… Caesar sat up straight up, raised an eyebrow, and fired his smile directly at the camera.

"Helllllllo Panem!" He roared above the din. "Well how about that precocious young dandelion from six? That twelve year old may not have much in the way of teeth, but don't rule out her brains, folks! Next, we continue the interviews with the capricious male contender from District 6. He proved himself rather unpredictable in training… Come on out Mr. Edmond Dantés." Caesar flailed his arms like a drummer, finishing with both arms pointed towards the curtain. And with that, into the spotlight came Edmond Dantés.

Edmond had a wiry frame, with very little in the way of muscle. He had poor posture and even worse, his stylists had draped him in the most plain looking garb Caesar had ever seen: a white collared shirt with black pants. He was almost painful to look at against the grandiose back drop of the interview stage. _Nothing to work with here; this will not be easy_. Caesar decided to deflect some blame onto the poor boy's stylists. "Wow folks, we need to alert the authorities. Ed's stylists must have croaked."

Edmond spoke, almost mouse like, after the predictable laughter subsided. "No. They're alive. I changed into this. They couldn't make me wear their ridiculous suit."

Caesar's brow furrowed. This kid really wasn't going to make this easy. At least he wasn't too nervous. "You mean, you chose those clothes?" asked Caesar emphatically.

"That's right. I'd like to die with my dignity."

Caesar winced. _Giving up so easily?_ No sponsor would waste money on a tribute that was already admitting defeat.

"Come on, Ed. Don't talk that way. You had a decent training score- you must have some skill with a weapon? And what might it be? A bow? An ax? A sword? Our dear viewers need to know these things!" Everyone cheered.

Edmond spoke more confidently now, but frustratedly. "Gaining some skill is a natural vicissitude of the games, Caesar. At best a weapon will delay my demise, but I cannot win the games."

_Look at this coward, _thought Caesar_. Well, some tributes are just losers, and that's a real vicissitude of the games_. Caesar didn't let his growing dislike of the boy show in his voice, _"_But Ed, somebody MUST win. Why not you?"

Edmond sighed. "I don't... Well... Caesar, I'd like to read you something from a poem I like. Is that alright?"

Caesar tilted his head towards the camera in an eager expression, "Please."

Edmond cleared his throat. "Here it goes: No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of your friend's or of your own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

"Beautiful, just beautiful." Caesar squeaked, hoping to regain the interest of the crowd after that droll rot. "What does it mean?" He asked.

"It means that nobody wins the games." Said Edmond. Caesar's eyes fired towards the producer, but he nodded to allow the interview to continue. Caesar felt a bead of sweat cut through the powdered make-up on his forehead. "Nobody wins the games. When the cannon fires to signal a tribute's death, it won't be the tribute's death, but yours." Edmond raised his voice. Now he was making uncomfortable eye contact with Caesar. "When the anthem plays and pictures of the dead are raised, it will be your picture Caesar. It will be your picture, Panem. It will be President Snow's picture. It will be all of our kind reduced to-" His mic was cut off. But Caesar heard him finish.

Caesar's periphery caught the motion of the producer flinging his arms up in the air, Caesar shot his eyes towards the man and he saw him repeatedly make a rip-chord motion across this throat. Caesar gulped to try and swallow the lump in his throat but it remained.

"Well, that's all the time we have for this contestant folks." Said Caesar's plastered smile. Nobody could see it, but he felt his lips quivering. He turned to Edmond. "Let's wish this tribute luck. He's going to need it."

Edmond was hurried off stage and the girl from District 7 was rushed on. Caesar began the interview, and normalcy returned. He dismissed the eerie feeling the boy from six gave him. No tribute spoke of the Capitol that way and lived. Caesar was sure the boy's death would be as ignominious and forgettable as it was slow and excruciating.

But Caesar was wrong. In that year's games twenty tributes, including the careers from District 4, died instantly by stepping off their platforms into the mines before the games began. The four tributes from one and two battled it out. The girl from District 2 won. That year's games lasted one minute and fifty one seconds. Everybody lost. Even the Capitol.


End file.
